


She Weeps

by therantygeek



Category: The Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: Child Murder, Euthanasia, F/M, Murder, Necroism, References to Drugs, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 09:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20636585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therantygeek/pseuds/therantygeek
Summary: This is what happens when you watch Chronicles of Riddick with a dirty mind. Started as a kind of POV experiment and sort of got carried away from there. A commander of the Armada catches the attention of a devoted convert, but in the Basilica the Faith must always come first…mustn’t it?Warnings: Necromonger stuff (murder, euthanasia, drugging, general awfulness), plus absolute and pure smutty filth. Note this is written from the point of view of an unnamed female who absolutely and 100% believes in Necroism, with all that implies. If you think this might unsettle you then I strongly recommend not reading it!





	She Weeps

When they come, she is one of the first in line to convert.

The ones who call themselves her leaders are weak. Insipid. Pathetic. They scream and cry for mercy, cowering beneath their silken veils. The mightiest warriors are torn apart. Bodies stacked like autumn leaves. The cry goes up from the legions who have taken the world – the whole world – in a matter of mere hours.

_Threshold! Take us to the Threshold_!

She drinks in the words. The fresh start. The cleansing of the skies. The blessed future and promise of the Underverse. Dropping to her knees, she reaches in awe and new-found adoration, feeling the chill of the holy half-dead’s cloak slip through the grasp of her fingers as he chooses who will be the first to be purified.

‘Those two. That one over there.’ A pause, and that cold grip touches her chin, tilts her head up. For an instant it is as if he smiles. ‘This one.’

She weeps with joy.

When the pain comes, as it sears through flesh and bone and nerve, _then_ she does not weep. Does not cry out. It is as promised. Perfection. Absolution. An exchange of understanding. A blessing.

They give her clothing. Rich, dark, hooded. Holy robes for a holy calling. Her embrace of the Faith has not gone unnoticed. She is put to work by the Purifier himself, to calm those who try to resist the conversion. Pale-eyed, he monitors her in approval. Converts are supposed to be dedicated, but rarely does he witness such true-hearted, bone-deep devotion.

Even the Lord Marshall remembers her.

‘The little one, with the big eyes. So _ardent_.’

When he passes by and nods to her, she again weeps for the bitter joy of it, and for the unknowing souls of the converts who know not what they oppose.

‘Hush,’ she soothes in a whisper as they cry out and struggle against the pain, ‘Hush, and let the promise of the Underverse embrace you. Don’t you know that you are blessed?’

Between conversions, as the armada sails silently between worlds from the razed to those still cursed with life, she prays for swift battles and a rapid campaign and the living promise of Underverse to come. As they all do. Of course.

And then, one day, she sees _him._

It is just after a reaping, as the new converts are being brought in for processing. She is in their midst, a flitting shadow between the bulwarks of the armoured guards, murmuring reassurances and reminding the panicked breeders of the promise to come.

‘_Not my baby_-‘ someone screams, and there is a lurch in the column ‘-_I won’t let you take her_-‘

What a strange proclamation, she thinks. The young are no use to the campaign. It should not fall on the innocent to undertake the purification of this sad universe. Babies, children, any not firmly into biological adulthood, are sent straight to the Underverse, for their own sake. Anything else would be an abominable cruelty.

‘Let her go, do what you want with me but let her go!’It is a breeder woman. A mother. The child in her arms is barely six local cycles old, terrified and with tears streaking its face.

‘Hush,’ she calls, soothing, comforting, and without a second thought hastens into the crowded line even as the legionaries ready their weapons, glancing in with frowns at the disturbance. ‘Be still, woman. Of course, your child will not be converted. What need does the Faith’s campaign have of those still so fresh in the bloom of innocence?’

The dark eyes go wide in disbelief.‘You – you mean it?’

‘There are no lies here. Give her to me.’

Something about the certainty, the confident promise, has the breeder relinquishing the child. So she crouches down, pats the little head, picks it up and feels the tiny heart beating wildly against the chill of her own breast.

‘She’ll be safe?’ the breeder calls tremulously, craning her head back against the push of the crowd.

‘She’ll be waiting for you. Beyond the Threshold.’

‘What? No! _NO_! You _MONSTER_-‘

‘Mama!’

‘Hush.’ She strokes the curly hair gently and navigates them carefully out of the throng. For such a holy task as the anointing of a child, she must find the Purifier. He will know what to do. None under the appointed age are supposed to be brought into the Basilica. Someone has failed at their duty, which makes it is also her duty to ensure this is not forgiven lightly.

Children are precious. They must be sent to the Underverse as soon as possible to spare them all the horrors of a verse that never should have seen them.

‘Where are you going with that?’

Turning, she sees one of the legionnaires. Tall, broad-shouldered, both blade and citadel of the Faith made flesh. He wears the icon of a commander and she drops to her knees, relieved to find one who can give her instruction.

‘My lord, this child was with the breeders. It must be anointed.’

‘How did it get this far?’ he demands, reaching out one heavy, gloved hand to seize the girl’s chin. ‘It is far too young to convert.’ His voice is rough, imposing; every sound that of a Lord Commander of the Faith.

‘I don’t know, my lord,’ she replies truthfully, bowing her head. The breeders are supposed to be thoroughly searched before they are brought aboard for conversion. Permitting one to keep a child hidden long enough to board is a lapse dreadful enough to border on heresy. But she does not know which of the legions were supposed to search this batch.

‘What’s going on?’ The coldly melodic voice of the Purifier intrudes. ‘A child?’

‘Hidden in the skirts of a breeder, most likely,’ the commander says, sounding halfway between disappointed and disgusted. ‘The search squad did a poor job. This one walked right into the middle of the column and took it from the mother.’ There’s a hint of something else in his tone now; surprise, perhaps even a vague note of approval at her swift actions.

‘Poor thing.’ The Purifier shakes his head. ‘Come, let us see her on her way.’

‘Halt the row,’ the commander barks to a nearby man, indicating with one hand. ‘And search them again before they go in any further. Properly, this time.’

‘Yes, my lord.’While the legionnaires see to the line, the commander pulls his helmet from his head and looks at her. It is a fleeting moment of attention, barely more than a glance, but she feels a rush of something that she barely remembers when his gaze briefly flicks to hers. He is _handsome_, tall and strong, unnaturally pale like everyone in the armada, with shadows of nobility and honour shrouding his eyes inside the dark rings of a convert.

For a long space between heartbeats she forgets to walk, forgets to breathe, as though that stygian regard has frozen her soul in place.

Then the Purifier calls her, the commander turns away, and she is reminded of her place as she hurries away from the boarding causeway.

They take the girl to a quiet place. The Purifier readies a dram – instant, painless, the easiest way to usher young ones into the Underverse – and then hands it to her.

‘Send her on.’

She is astonished. The act of sanctification, of bringing one through the Threshold, should not fall to a mere lowly convert. But he smiles, nods at her, and the benediction is enough.

‘Where is my mama?’ the girl protests.

‘You’ll see her again. She has work to do.’

‘When will I see her?’

‘Later. You can wait for her in the Underverse.’

‘What’s the Underverse?’

‘It is the place that loves all life.’ She smiles, seeing that it calms the child. ‘It is joy, and light, and green things, and all your favourite games all day long.’

‘_All_ day long?’

‘And every day. You can wait for your mother there, where you will be happy every day.’

‘All right.’ The child appeared to consider. ‘How do I get there?’

‘You just have to close your eyes. Lay back, and you’ll wake in the Underverse.

’‘Okay.’

The soft hiss of the dram, the slow fall of the girl’s eyelids, the cessation of her breath. Then, quiet.

‘Good,’ the Purifier says. ‘Return to the others.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

But something makes her pause. A hesitation. Not for the child. The child is gone to the Underverse now, and all the better, the slim little body still and empty on the slab. Something else.

‘My lord…’

‘Yes, little one?’

‘The lord commander from the column-‘

‘What of him?’

She drops her eyes, embarrassed to be caught in something so base as curiosity.

‘Nothing, my lord. Forgive me.’

‘Be careful in your interest, little one,’ the Purifier tells her, not unkindly. ‘Those who become too inquisitive about Lord Vaako tend to be…promoted before their time.’

‘I understand, my lord.’

The warning is, of course, not enough. Not when that night-touched regard returns to her during the sleep cycle, time and time again. The dignity of it. The strength behind it. In her dreams she revisits the broad shoulders, the rough voice, the heavy hands. Thoughts that have not bothered her since the conversion. Between her duties, she stakes out the quiet, dark places in the Basilica and listens to the whispering gossip of the other female converts. It doesn’t take long for her to hear more. Not with the name burned into her mind like a brand.

_Vaako_.

She sees him again one day in the Narthex, while she waits for the Purifier. He is in deep discussion with the Lord Marshall, but even next to the holiest of men she cannot draw her eyes from him. The dim light of the screens glints along the strong edge of his jaw, casts extra shadows around those depthless eyes made all the more exquisite in their animation. Carefully, carefully, she tries to take in a wider glimpse of his mien; the scar on his right eyebrow, the rich jet of his hair, the firmness of his gestures towards the battle plans on the display grid.

‘Eyeing the commanders, are we? Is life in the sanctification chambers not glamorous enough for you?’

The new voice – laconic, mocking – makes her start, and she freezes at the sight of the Lady who has slipped unseen into the nook with her. For this is a _Lady_, for true, one of the highest ranked women of the armada, evident in every inch of her.

‘There is always a place for more comforters,’ the Lady says with a sly quirk of her mouth. ‘Though I can’t help but think your gaze is drawn in a direction more…specific, is it not?’

She drops her eyes. It is not for her to say. Not for her to dare.

‘Mind your regard, _little one_. You may be the Purifier’s pet but do not presume on what is mine.’

That makes her look up again, startled, but then she sees. As he leaves the Narthex, his orders done for now, the Lady approaches him. Inserts herself under his arm as his hand comes to rest on the small of her back. There is pride in both faces. Possessive. Confident. Superior.

The night that follows is the first one since her conversion where she weeps in something other than joy.

Of course, she must bear it, and should be glad of her lot. She is a lowly convert, a mere servant of the Faith, not a respected Lady of the Basilica. But envy eats at her, an ugly rot that pollutes fidelity. Who is this woman, so easily possessed of spite rather than grace for her privilege? The Lady is no warrior, that much is clear, but many serve in other ways; the Faith is utilitarian of its converts. She seeks. She watches. Carefully, carefully.

Why does the Lady meet with so many of the other commanders, in dark and secret places?

It is easy for her to be invisible. Her work for the Purifier to monitor the newest converts often takes her on barely-travelled paths within the Basilica. Paths that even the cunning Lady, the exquisite Dame, does not know exist. So she watches, hidden, from the recesses as the Dame meets with other commanders. Petulant, ambitious. Not one of them with a shred of his nobility.

‘You wish to be First Commander? My husband is far from invulnerable. Think what a shame it would be if he were promoted…and all that you would have to gain if he were.’

It is all she can do not to gasp out loud. The manner of position amongst the legions is a fact of the Faith, of course, but to see it so actively…_encouraged_? To see the Dame actively _bait_ another, to incite a challenge against the proper order of things? Surely, _surely_ such viciousness edges into the heretical?

The Purifier orders her to accompany him when there is a summons one day to the throne room, where a hovering crowd of functionaries parts before his stride. It takes every ounce of the control she has learned to keep her expression blank; in the centre of the room stands Vaako with a long glaive in his hands, opposed by Sazohl.

One of the commanders his Dame has been meeting with.

It rapidly becomes clear that Sazohl is notably the lesser warrior. In less than three minutes Vaako has him cornered, brings down the blade without hesitation. Another of the Faith ushered toward the Threshold. But why? Sazohl was no match for Vaako but still seemed competent enough in his own way. Why then did the Lady promote the conflict? Did her husband even know that the whispers of conquest in Sazohl’s ear were from his own Dame?

She sees this happen twice more. Two more would-be first commanders promoted to death. Vaako is near-unstoppable, a living hurricane in single combat. Still she does not know why. Does not understand. Why would the Dame, in possession of such a magnificent mate, put him at such risk of early death?

‘Wheat from chaff, little one,’ the Purifer chides gently when he notes her scrutiny. ‘Even once converted, how else can the armada be sure of the skill of its leaders? Caballers, conspirators like the Dame, these are the voices of the ongoing winnowing, as surely as the adept commanders are its instruments.’

It should be enough. But still she watches, listens, _haunts_ the Dame’s clandestine meetings. Vaako is still unbeaten, unconquerable, and the yearning in her breast is unabated.

‘You think I don’t know of the others you’ve goaded to the business end of your husband’s blade, woman?’

The latest target of the Dame, a fierce and ambitious commander named Ziqesh, is more cunning than most.

‘And still not one of them has proven worthy enough to meet it,’ the Dame replies. Calm. Confident. ‘Not one worthy enough to best him. To claim all that is his.’

‘You keep what you kill,’ Ziqesh agrees, showing teeth in a mirthless grin. ‘But when it _will not die_…’

The Dame laughs at him.‘You think I don’t grow weary of it? Of him? He will not challenge those who could elevate him. Content to merely _serve the Faith_ when he could _lead_ it. Do you think I do not seek so much more than mere service? All I need is someone to help me take it.’

Watching eyes go wide. The Dame speaks of duty in scorn, of honour as weakness. Is this simply another tool in her arsenal of gleaning, or has some malice exposed the its own truth?

‘I’ll not be mere fodder for your ambition, _Dame Vaako_,’ Ziqesh spits.

‘Watch your mouth,’ she snarls in return. ‘It’s past time to tip the balance. What _I_ need is a capable instrument.’

The vial catches the light as it is held up. A well-known dram, given to initiates to ease the conversion. Slowing the mind, slackening the body.

Ziqesh smiles. Takes it. Turns it over in his hand.

‘A potent ally.’

‘One nick, one cut, any break of the skin, and this takes effect in seconds,’ the Dame purrs. ‘The Faith never fights to first blood. He will not expect it. Never see it coming. And then…’

She has to put a hand over her mouth to catch the gasp. Conspiracy! And of the foulest, basest sort. It must be stopped somehow. How could she watch Vaako fall? She could not bear it. She _will_ not bear it.

The Dame laughs. The bargain is struck. Ziqesh leaves, but when he does it is with a shadow trailing him. She finds his quarters, listens to him celebrate his imminent ascension with a comforter. One brief return to the chambers of sanctification gives her everything she needs. Finally, as the empty silence of the night cycle descends on the Basilica, she steals around the hidden ways, bypassing the door, and slips inside.

Ziqesh is asleep, his comfort woman draped over his chest. Neither of them stirs as she finds the vial, tucks it into her robes and replaces it with the seemingly identical one she has brought with her.

Now let him challenge all he wants. He will not defeat Vaako without his false advantage.The following day she manages to conceal herself discreetly as the commotion starts in the Narthex. Ziqesh has wasted no time, and the black khopesh in his hand has a slight sheen to its edge. A shame that the drug on it is inert, of no more consequence than fresh water.

When he lunges, she sees the Dame frown. Vaako does not slow, seems contemptuous of the inelegant attack that leaves only a small nick on his right cheekbone. Seconds later Ziqesh lies dead. Still the Dame goes to her husband, kisses him, celebrates yet another of his victories. Fury, raw and unexpected in its virulence, surfaces. How _dare_ the Dame mislead him so? Vaako is noble, fair, strong, the best of the Faith, but bound to treachery made flesh. She _burns_ to think of the wrongness of it.

Days later, as she dwells unhappily on the knowledge, the Dame herself arrives in the sanctification chambers. The Purifier is elsewhere - his duties frequently require his attendance in other areas of the Basilica – and she is alone with only one other, quietly reviewing the somatics of the current converts.

‘Gaahn…’

Dame’s voice is calm. A murmur filled with dark promises. The other sanctifier scurries to meet her and murmurs beatitudes. He is enamoured. He is a fool.

At least that explains where the dram came from.

Of course, the Dame’s gentle words turn rapidly to spits of venom. Gaahn lied to her. The dram he gave her was inert. He will pay for his deception. The Dame is clearly unaccustomed to not getting what she wants.

‘…forcing me to change _my_ plans-‘

Gaahn is terrified. Confused. He took the vial straight from the main supply. He pleads ignorance, but the Dame has him cornered. Threatening. Sinister. The promises of vengeance never raise above a whisper, for all their malice.

Again she feels anger. Gaahn is a boy. Barely old enough not to be sent straight to the Underverse when his world was taken by the armada. He serves well. Diligent. Faithful. But this beautiful crone has polluted him, ruined him, as surely as she seeks to ruin the man she has bound to her by the laws of the Faith.

The spike is in her hands before conscious thought intervenes. It is a crude, blunt thing, a damaged conversion pylon agoniser recently replaced by a technician. The old one is due for recycling. But now it is in her grasp, and in a moment of perfect clarity she knows what she must do. For him. For the Faith.

The Dame is still hissing vitriol at Gaahn when the first blow lands. It knocks her to the ground. The pain means little of course, for any converted, but the second strike breaks the other leg. Even without pain, the human body has its physical limits when it comes to damage. Snarling in alarm, the Dame looks up at her.

‘How _dare_ you?’

She looks at the end of the spike, but the clarity is no less than it was a moment ago.

‘You do not deserve him.’

It takes all of her strength and the full lean of her weight to drive the thing home. Long seconds, during which the Dame screams and claws at her, but then there is a low crunch as the sternum snaps, bone splintering as the spike ravages the internal organs. The Dame chokes on her own blood in her mouth, gasps once, and is still.

Gaahn stares at her, agape.

‘What have you done?’

She lets the spike go. It remains upright, embedded in the Dame’s torso. In the body.

‘Who is _him_?’ Gaahn presses, wringing his hands. ‘You said she did not deserve-‘

‘Why did you give her the dram?’

The question seems to shake him.

‘The Dame…demanded it. How could I refuse?’

‘What did she want it for?’

‘I don’t know.’ Terror confirms the truth in his words. ‘I did not question her.’

‘Then you are a fool, but not a heretic.’

‘What?’

She does not bother to respond, hearing murmurs from the doorway. Other sanctifiers have returned. They are no longer alone in the room. The murmurs travel. Soon they will encompass the whole Basilica. It is possible – easy, even – to keep secrets in the armada, but the still-cooling corpse of Dame Vaako with a conversion spike through her heart in the sanctification chambers will not be concealed. Should not be concealed.

‘Well.’ The Purifier has arrived, and the crowd parts respectfully for him to pass through. He regards the body with mild interest. ‘An…unusual choice of weapon, little one.’

She looks up at him then, wondering why she is not afraid. Censure is inevitable. She has killed a Lady of the Basilica, dared to judge the due time of one above her in the Faith. Perhaps they will recondition her. Perhaps she will have her mind simplified, to serve another way. A lensor, or some other not-machine functionary. It does not matter. Because the Dame was a heretic, and she has killed her, and one day she will still see the Underverse but the Dame will not.

While the commanders and legionnaires challenge and kill each other regularly, the death of a Lady of the Basilica at the hands of a junior sanctifier is unusual. Gaahn is taken away, still protesting his innocence. He will need reconditioning if he is to ever be fit to serve again. He has already bleated the story to the Purifier, to the guards, to anyone else who will listen. His panicked babble echoes in the corridors for minutes after he is led out.

Muttered conversation by the entryway, and the fall of heavy boot steps. She is not surprised to see Vaako exchanging low-voiced words with the Purifier. They both glance at her. Vaako nods, then crosses to glance at the body with only the idlest of interest. He crouches, tests the end of the embedded spike and seems to almost approve of how deeply it has been driven into his former wife’s chest.

When he stands, it is all she can do not to flinch as his gaze settles solely on her.

‘Why?’

That she did not expect. What answer can she give but the truth?

‘It is not winnowing if the chaff is given a false advantage.’

‘It is not,’ he agrees.

‘She would have weakened the Faith. For her own gain.’

‘Undeniably a crime.’

‘A blasphemy.’

He falls silent at that, dark eyes sweeping back and forth over her face. Searching. But for what?

‘Come with me.’

As he turns and walks away she follows without hesitation. Perhaps he wants to see to her censure himself. Unusual for a commander, but then the entire circumstance is unusual. It does not matter. She will follow him wherever he leads, and do so gladly. If he is the last thing she is to see before her mind is taken, it will be enough.

There are curious glances and stares from others as they pass through the different levels of the Basilica. After long minutes of silent walking he reaches a single ornate door and stops, indicating for her to precede him. Curiosity intruding now, she obeys. She has never seen the reconditioning or mind-cleansing facilities. She had assumed they were further astern.But the room, though ample in size, is clearly no such thing. There is a stand for armour and weaponry, decorative as well as functional. A window to the warp-distorted stars beyond the hull. A narrow arch leading to an adjacent washroom. Tables. Chairs. A lavish neosilk-sheeted bed.

Vaako closes the door and watches her carefully as she assesses the room. She cannot really help when her gaze lingers on the surfaces, the seating. Cosmetics, brushes, jewels, the sort worn by the higher Ladies. Gowns, dresses, slippers, all much more finely-made than the tattered robes of a sanctifier-convert. Finally she looks back to him, lost to drinking in his presence but not beyond puzzlement at her predicament.

‘This,’ he says slowly, indicating the room and all of its trappings, ‘Is yours now.’

She blinks, only more confused.

‘Mine?’

‘Yours. All of it.’ Something almost akin to humour seems to tug at one side of his mouth, but is gone before she can properly identify it. ‘Her rooms. Her finery. Her…trinkets. Everything that was hers.’

‘…everything?’ Her hand reaches out, runs over the back of a chair. The dark wood is smooth, well-polished, finely made. It feels real, solid under her grip.

‘Don’t tell me that such a devoted acolyte is ignorant of one of the fundamental codes of the Faith,’ he replies, and there is no denying the snap of amusement in his voice now. She freezes as realisation hits her.

_You keep what you kill._

The tenet is one of the oldest laid into law. It is exercised frequently, most often by the jostling lower ranks of legionnaires and their commanders. It is the very instrument by which the dead Dame ran her campaigns of so-called winnowing, in fact. And it extends far beyond mere material possessions…

Whirling, she stares at Vaako in shock. The longing that has haunted her since that reaping day blooms almost painfully into a flaming hope in her breast.

‘Everything?’ she asks again, battling to keep her voice from trembling. Surely it is not true. She is already counted amongst the blessed, can she even dare to wish for more?

Vaako chuckles; a low, dark sound. He takes a heavy step towards her, crowding her against the wall and looming over her smaller form. So close he is even more magnificent; strong, powerful, pure, his scrutiny roaming over her as though he can see through her flesh straight into her soul.

‘Yes. _Everything_.’ Bending his neck so their noses almost touch, he raises his brows. ‘You think I’ve not seen your following eyes? You’re a quiet one, and more than cunning, but your stare burns like a new convert’s brand to those it marks. Fitting, for the Purifier’s favoured pupil.’

Trembling openly now, she can barely summon the will to meet his gaze. The immediacy of that midnight regard threatens to swallow her whole.

‘The Faith,’ she manages, ‘The Faith demands-‘

‘Don’t misunderstand me.’ One gauntlet comes up to her face, twining a strand of hair around the armoured fingers as if in deep thought. ‘I recognise your service, to me, and to the Faith. I do not lament the snake you slew. Maybe you even thought that was why you cast the blow, in the moment itself. But let us not pretend, little one.’ Turning his head, he speaks directly into her ear. ‘Is this not what you’ve wanted all along?’

The feel of his breath whispering across the skin of her neck is beyond intoxicating, sending sparks shooting across her skin. His proximity, the energy of him, ignites a fire she never thought to kindle. Her control snaps, fragile as a single thread, and without thought she lunges up, takes his face in both her hands and kisses him. Wonder and want blend into a single chorus, rising to a deafening roar when he returns her fervour, tongue sliding over the seam of her lips before parting them to delve inside.

When they both break off for air she thinks she will lose her mind at the cessation of his touch. Grasping, tugging at his armour, she opens buckles and tears clasps loose. Plates drop to the ground, baring the ablative textile beneath. She claws at the seams to pull the cloth from him, the feel of his bare skin under her hands leaving her little short of panting with raw desire. The sound of ripping surfaces her momentarily from the haze and she realises that he has bypassed all niceties to tear the robes from her, casting them aside like so many scraps. When he kisses her again she arches her whole body into his, grasping frantically at his arms, his hands, as he walks them deftly across the room without pausing in his thorough and savage plunder of her mouth. The room lurches as he swings her about to toss her onto the bed, trapping her wrists above her head without releasing her lips. For a long, delicious moment she luxuriates in the feel of him pinning her, the raw power of his body over hers. But it isn’t enough to be passive, to merely lie beneath him. The wish to affirm her desire for him, to prove the devotion he invokes in her, becomes an imperative need.

He lets her pull herself free, seems to enjoy the feel of her hands roaming his shoulders and back. When she flips him an instant of surprise registers in his expression but again he permits it, and something almost like a smirk crosses his face as she straddles his waist, bending to lavish reverential attention to every inch of his skin that she can reach. One by one, careful touches trace over scars and burns between expanses of pale, unblemished muscle and sinew. Each mark is a brand of the Faith, holy and precious. Each intact stretch is a promise of vitality, of battle and honour for continued triumph. She is sure to worship every piece of both.

When she reaches his cock she does not pause, suckling at the liquid salt that has gathered and slicking the length with both hands and tongue. The sound of his pleasured moan is a hymnal to her ears, but she is powerless to continue her eager supplication when he hauls her back up his body and pushes her thighs apart with his hands. He slips one thick finger along her slit, tracing the moisture that betrays her lust, and then plunges it up into her with a suddenness that makes her gasp. She half falls, flinging her palms down to brace herself against his shoulders, unable to do anything but submit to his intrusion as he adds a second finger, then a third, flexing them to touch hidden places inside her that she has never known existed, let alone considered as a source of pleasure.

The loss as he withdraws from her is almost painful, but when he grabs her hips and manoeuvres her to sink onto his cock instead she forgets the brief lack. He is full and broad and stretches her as though she were made to fit him, a sheath that has finally found a home with a sword to claim it. The grip of his palms will leave bruises, would be painful to a breeder, but she is a blessed convert of the Faith and feels only the push and pull, the deliciously aching friction that lights her whole body on fire.

So she rides him, throwing her head back and closing her eyes to focus on nothing but the pure awareness of it, of feeling him, of owning and being owned by him, this glorious avatar of the Faith made flesh and now _hers_ to honour and to adore. It feels like both hours and mere heartbeats later when the curl of heat low in her belly fully blossoms, expanding like the heart of a dying star until she is reduced to nothing but a breathless mirror of sensation that shatters into an infinity of shining pieces.

Gradually she comes back to herself, to the room, to the reality of the verse-that-is. Vaako is still beneath her but from the warm brimming between her legs she knows that he has filled her with his seed, though of course it is inert as for all of the Faith. The knowledge of his release into her is like a hot coal, scorching to the touch and yet also endlessly satisfying to contemplate.

When he lifts her, cleans her, lies her back upon the bed, she submits meekly and does not resist the lingering, possessive caress that he trails down her body with one hand before tucking her back against him. She writhes like a kitten as he mouths at the back of her neck, biting at her convert’s scars before tucking his nose into her hair.

‘Sleep, little one,’ he purrs into her ear, ‘And together we will continue the winnowing as it should be done. For all the Faith, until Underverse come.’

She closes her eyes, smiling, as he curls around her spine, and once his breathing evens into slumber she feels tears on her face. Once more she weeps. Once more with joy.


End file.
